


Dazed

by sujing



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Age Difference, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Muggle, Dimension Travel, Domestic Fluff, Fluff and Angst, M/M, Memory Loss, POV Alternating, Present Tense, Sirius Lives
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-08-05
Updated: 2019-08-05
Packaged: 2020-08-10 01:49:36
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,918
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20127376
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sujing/pseuds/sujing
Summary: When Harry loses Sirius to the Veil, he does what he always does: he dives in headfirst. Just, as it happens, a month and a little advice from his friends later.What he finds isn’t what he expects.(Or, in which Sirius finds himself in a magicless dimension with no memories of being a wizard. Nor the war, Azkaban, and Ha—well, no, that last one isn't quite true.)





	Dazed

**Author's Note:**

  * In response to a prompt by [aroundloafofbread](https://archiveofourown.org/users/aroundloafofbread/pseuds/aroundloafofbread) in the [SirryFest](https://archiveofourown.org/collections/SirryFest) collection. 

> Hi!! I took this prompt and ran with it, so I hope you enjoy this despite some of the changes I made (whether they show up in this chapter or a future one). Thank you for the lovely inspiration! I hope to complete this in ~4 chapters or so, but I'm still in the process of writing so…no promises :P

Harry knows he’s being rash. He knows there’s a non-zero chance that this won’t work, that he might never return, never see Ron or Hermione again. He knows Sirius would disapprove if he knew, but that’s just the thing—he doesn’t. 

Hermione’s letter walks him through the necessary steps in excruciating detail. She reassures him with comforting words that _ everything will be just fine, _ but Harry sees the way her hand must have shook as she wrote. It’s clear in every stroke of black ink, a hesitant touch to her usually immaculate script. It’s certainly not because of the quill, because while Harry still hasn’t quite grasped writing cleanly with one even after five years in the wizarding world, Hermione has long become a master. 

Ron cheers him on, but the worry is there too. _ Best of luck, mate, _ he writes, and Harry wonders if he’ll tip off his parents and the Order at the last minute, not wanting to see him go. Not wanting to let Harry risk himself, not for a dead man. 

But Harry has to try. He’s barely been eating for the past month, has left his room all of one time, his focus wholly on Sirius and how to get him back. He can only theorise about what lies beyond the Veil, but he has to hope: it’s all he has left.

(At least the Dursleys are happy about that, he thinks bitterly. Hardly any noise comes from within his room save for Hedwig’s sad hoots.) 

Today is the day. He doesn’t tell Ron, doesn’t tell Hermione, because this is something he has to do alone. They both offered to accompany him, of course, and his heart warms at the thought, but he won’t place them in the path of danger. Not like he did Sirius. 

Harry is _ dying _ without Sirius. 

There’s a sort of irony in that, he thinks, and he almost laughs. Voldemort has tried to murder him time and time again, but in the end, Harry might just be the death of himself. Though, he thinks spitefully, Bellatrix would claim partial credit in an attempt to please her master. 

He can still hear her triumphant scream ringing through his ears every night. Her taunts as they raced through the Ministry, flinging curses back and forth. Statues, smashed. Sounds echoing up and down the halls. 

_ “Aaaaaah…did you _ love _ him, little baby Potter?” _

Harry squeezes his eyes shut as he recalls her curse, poisonous green, striking Sirius in the chest. Illuminating his face, frozen eternally in shock as he fell through the Veil. 

He hated her enough then to try for the Cruciatus. It didn’t work, not really, but for a moment…for a moment, she _screamed. _

_ No. _ He shakes his head to dispel the thought. Anger won’t help him here—he knows it was wrong; he feels ashamed of what he’s done. _ No, Sirius is alive. Hermione said there’s a chance. The Veil isn’t well understood, and Sirius...Sirius passed through whole. If I can find him…and I will… _

He grabs his broom and checks his pocket for his wand. Mounts the beloved Firebolt he received from Sirius years ago, slinging a bag with an Extension Charm on it sent by Hermione over his shoulder. It’s filled with emergency supplies, including some Muggle money, a first-aid kit, and a week’s supply of food because she knows the Dursleys would never provide those to him willingly. 

Harry reaches into its depths. His fingers brush against a small object, an old-fashioned key. The cool metal of its surface steadies him, and he takes in a deep breath, saying his silent thank yous and goodbyes as he clutches it. He doesn’t leave a note, because that seems too final. Like he’s doomed to fail from the start. 

He has to believe. 

* * *

Sirius—or at least he’s pretty sure that’s what his name is—gets ready for bed, going through his usual routine of remedying the disaster zone that is the kitchen, brushing his teeth haphazardly over the sink there, and changing into his sleepwear, tossing his clothes in an ever-growing messy pile. It’s been exactly a month since he woke up in an unfamiliar bed in an unfamiliar house. A month since he woke up only to realise that he was missing nearly all of his memories.

It’s a usual day, almost mundane in its normalcy. He prepared a full day’s worth of cooking in the morning and spent the rest of his time at the park enjoying the fresh air. It’s the middle of July, and the sun is bright and invigorating. 

He chatted up a couple strangers that he came across, even petted a dog. Strangely, he felt a closer sense of kinship with the dog than the humans. 

Something is missing, he knows. Something crucial. 

_ Yeah, my memories, that’s what. _Thirty years of them, and he can’t recall a thing. Can’t remember anything happy, nor anything sad. A blank slate, he supposes, which shouldn’t be so bad, except… 

He keeps seeing these brilliant green eyes in his dreams, a flash of warmth accompanying them. They never fail to come each night, keeping him company in a too-big house. 

He wonders who they belong to. _ A man? A woman? _ It has to be someone he knows. It has to be. 

It’s all he has to hold on to. 

Except, of course, he doesn’t remember… 

* * *

Harry reaches the Veil deep in the Department of Mysteries, Aurors hot at his back. 

He should have expected this. It’s really not in his nature to be subtle—to _ sneak_—so it shouldn’t come as a surprise that he sets off a multitude of alarms entering the Ministry after hours despite Hermione’s careful direction. 

At least he has his agility and reflexes, honed through years of Seeking and surviving an endless barrage of life-threatening incidents one after another. It’s what gets him past security’s efforts just long enough, giving him that small window he needs. 

What happens after doesn’t matter. He can explain later if he succeeds. They would listen, now that Voldemort’s return has become public, Fudge and the _ Daily Prophet _ no longer in burying their heads in denial. 

As the Boy Who Lived, they would pardon him, and that’s all he needs to know. He has more important matters on his mind. 

_ Sirius. _

When he throws himself through the Veil, it flows across his skin like silk, like falling into a dream—and then he’s _ really _ falling, falling, _ falling _ through empty air—

He lands with a thump on something hard. 

* * *

Sirius wakes with a jolt, having only just fallen asleep. 

_ “Ow,” _ he groans, flailing blindly at the weight on top of him, and he hears a muffled cry in response as the figure is shoved off the edge of the bed and onto the hard floor below. “What—who—why—_WHERE DID YOU COME FROM?” _ Sirius shouts in alarm, his body jumping up to a sitting position. 

Then he gets a look at the stranger’s—the _ boy’s—_face, and he remembers. Familiar green eyes as bright as sunlight passing through a canopy of leaves in summer and as full of life, too. 

_ Harry. _

It’s his name, though Sirius hasn’t a clue how it appeared in his mind. It just did. He just _ knows. _

It slips out of his mouth quiet as a whisper, but Harry hears. Harry hears, and now he’s crying, clutching at Sirius with agonised desperation in his lovely eyes and his hoarse, incomprehensible voice, and it’s all Sirius can do to hold him back. He needs to make it stop, to make it _ better… _

(He’s failed once already; he knows that instinctively. He’s hurt the boy with his reckless nature, though he remembers not how.)

… And Harry calms gradually under his touch, Sirius’s hand smoothing out his dishevelled hair with gentle strokes. Sirius, still holding him back, scrambles for words. It’s clear to Sirius that the boy recognises him, too, or at least believes he does. Considering how Sirius’s memories are a giant blank beyond a month back, it’s all too believable. 

Harry looks exhausted. Like he’s run a marathon, maybe more. Like he wouldn’t be able to walk five steps without collapsing, how his body shivers. 

The house is big. It’s lonely, empty as it is, sounds echoing through hollow halls and unused rooms. Dust collecting faster than Sirius can sweep it away. 

So maybe Sirius has ulterior motives. Maybe he craves another’s company. Maybe he never quite grew up, never matured beyond some forgotten trauma in his past. Maybe it’s just how he is. Yeah, the extent of his missing memories doesn’t help. He just…he doesn’t know—and isn’t that a recurring trend? It’s left him with no obligations but to himself. 

Still, there’s something about him—about Harry. Something that can’t be erased even with the chasm of Sirius’s lost memories. 

“Hey,” Sirius says, tapping the boy lightly on his shoulder. “If you need to crash, I have plenty of spare rooms.”

Harry nods, too stunned and too tired to talk. Doesn’t pause to consider, accepts Sirius’s offer like anything else is unthinkable. 

Maybe it is. 

* * *

Harry falls again, this time to what is unmistakably a hard wooden floor. Disoriented, he tries to push himself upright, only for his eyes to meet grey—

He’s shouting something, the man perched on the bed before him, his eyes wide with surprise. But the sound doesn’t reach Harry: the face before him is so familiar it _ aches, _ drowning out all other sensation. 

It’s Sirius. Harry didn’t dare imagine that he’d find his godfather so soon, so easily. 

Sirius looks different. Better. Less gaunt…younger. The haunted shadows are gone from his being and his shoulders are unburdened. Like he never spent over a decade locked up with Dementors for guards, day in and day out. 

There’s recognition in those eyes staring back at Harry. There’s a whisper of a name on his tongue. 

And Harry…Harry jumps to his feet, stumbling over himself as he _ reaches. _Reaches forward like he did when Sirius passed through the Veil, Lupin holding him back lest he follow him through…and this time, his hands find him. 

Tears are overflowing, staining his face and his clothes and the bedspread beneath, but Harry doesn’t care. Sirius’s warmth is just so easy to fall back into, and before Harry knows it, a month’s worth of unsaid words are spilling from his lips. 

_ “Oh God I was so worried Sirius I’m sorry I’m late I was devastated I’ll never endanger you again I won’t be reckless anymore how have you been—” _

He’s forgetting how to breathe, gasps wracking his lungs, and nothing’s making sense but he can’t stop—

Can’t possibly express—

Harry chokes back an incoherent sob, interrupting the flood coming from within him. His eyes squeeze shut, blurry and swollen, and he feels a warm touch against his head. And despite everything, he feels himself calming, a tiny ball of warmth in his chest growing larger and larger until it encompasses his entire being. 

He’s spent. Exhausted, now that the moment is over and the adrenaline and sheer relief is leaving him. Spots dance across his vision, and his limbs feel weak. He could…pass out…fall asleep right there in Sirius’s arms. 

Sirius says something, a worried look on his face. Still Harry cannot make out the words. His head dips; his eyelids droop. 

The last thing he sees is those stunning grey eyes.


End file.
